An Autobiography
by Not-Quite-Shakespeare
Summary: Ever been curious about Rick O'Connell's background, or how the occurances during the Mummy movies went through his eyes? Well, here it is; his autobiography! Chapters 1-3 of many. Stay tuned.


Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters portrayed in this fanfic, nor do I claim to. I'm well aware that some of the information contradicts the Mummy movies, but I was forced to choose between the information presented in the movies, or the information presented in the novels, and I chose the novels. If you think something doesn't match up, check the novelizations, and chances are, they do. Special thanks goes out to Crys for helping me hone a better grasp on the character of Rick.   
  
Do note that this is my first true stab at fanfic, and it might be bad. If it is, tell me that. Review it how you will, though don't be surprised that if you're more destructive than constructive, I'll be sure to take a good look at your 'fics as well. Any suggestions are more than welcome.  
  
Chapter 1 -- Orphans  
-- 1910; Cairo, Egypt  
  
I'd always been fascinated with it, ever since I could remember ( which, coincidentally, was after I had picked it up ), "it" being a mark on my lower, right forearm. A mariner's compass, pointing downward, with falcon's wings coming from the back of the compass and pointing upward at an angle that, with enough imagination ( which of course wasn't lacking from a boy who seemed to be at about the age of nine; I never found someone quite sure of how old I was, much less when my birthday was. ), could be viewed as a pyramid. In the center of that pyramid was a creepy eye-looking thing that was just the perfect tool for an obnoxious child as I was to make up stories to frighten my fellow, orphan girls. Truth be told, I was known as the "marked one" until about when I picked up enough to speak correctly, and inquired the house-lady about why I didn't have a name. She promptly corrected that by dubbing me Richard, a name which I recognized as belonging to her late husband. I opted to entitle myself Rick in the following years. But that's me straying off the beaten trail...  
  
To my knowledge, my life began in a nice ( moderately using that word, of course ) Orphanage on the backstreets of Cairo where the wife of the late curator of the Cairo Museum of Antiquities had set up a house to care for the many kids which inhabited Cairo's streets. As far back as I can remember, that's where I was, and for all purposes, that's where my life started. The house consisted of six rooms, all on the second level of a building. The main and smallest room which could be entered merely by stepping through the front doors served as the house-lady's office and was rarely inhabited by any of us, being that we weren't allowed in there, so of all the rooms, I remember the least about that. Connecting to that room by a doorless archway and down a small hall was the largest room in the house which consisted of three windows and high-backed walls that made the room actually seem bigger than it was. Crammed against every possible wall space the house-lady had been able to find, were military-issue bunk beds, the room divided down the middle so that the girls stayed on the side of the room with the windows, and the boys against the opposing wall. There were two hallways which branched from the rear of the room, the right of which twisted downward into two restrooms ( appropriately marked boys and girls ) and the other hall which led down into the room where we were served our breakfast and dinner. From the messhall, there was a backdoor which had a set of stairs through which the kids mostly traveled in and out to play throughout the day. Through a doorway to the right of the messhall, there was a small room that the house-lady had crammed with cots and medical-items to nurse the sick or ailing kids with.  
  
No matter how hard I try, I can't remember much of anything up until ( using January 1st, 1901 as a prospective birthdate offered by the house-lady ) I was seven years old. Everything before that is blurry and mostly recollected by horror stories the house-lady would explain to me on the few nights that I'd go to her inquiring about my past. The two years between the ages of seven and nine were fairly basic. I was a little boy and I got into trouble and my fair share of scars. It wasn't until I was nine that my life changed.  
  
Me and Gregor ( a short, stalky, eight-year-old with a spoltch of unruly red hair, entangled amongst itself in curls, startlingly green eyes, and a face with more freckles than clear skin..even if it normally was too dirty to tell. ) were just about at the age that the prospective parents that wandered through the orphanage time and time again refused to even glance our way. Afterall, who wanted an eight-year-old freckle-face that was yet to get a light grasp on grammatical concepts or a nine-year-old that, well...looked like me? I was the kind of boy that new grandparents warned their children about at the time of their first born. I wasn't necessarily tall for my age, but I had a pair of broad shoulders that were lined with muscle and my face was not only typically dirt-stained, but it held a sort of wild obnoxiousness to it that only the house-lady would dare quell. Strange-colored, grey-blue eyes and tousled, dirty blonde hair completed my trouble-making-scoundrel look perfectly. About a year prior, I had been notorious for sneaking in a pile of rounded stones from the streets outside and slipping them under the blankets of my bed.. so that when people entered the orphanage and failed to rescue me from it, they found themselves with bruised backsides thanks to me having an uncanny aim with weaponry and my only posession in the entire world... a black-hued, Flyer-brand slingshot with a metal hilt and elastic stringing, as well as a leather pouch to hold the future-projectile snug while aiming. It had come to the Orphanage when they said I was five, one of the city's charity's on a holiday, and the house-lady had allowed me to have it, thinking that a five-year-old wouldn't bother to master it. Boy, did she regret that move.  
  
Gregor's feet were dangling uncomfortably close to my head from the top bunk of our beds, those dancing emerald eyes steady on the couple that had strode past us with not even the complimentary 'my, what handsome little boys!', and we were both set on revenge. I had scoped out the male as my chief target ( I'd never had a thing for hitting a woman. The girls in the Orphange didn't count..they were like my sisters. ), but had hesitated in the retrieval of my slingshot if only because, while in passing, I had noted the slender hilt of a silver dagger tucked into his beltline. To two boys growing up basically on the streets of Cairo, larceny was life, and I had no misgivings about depriving our visitor of that blade before handing him a bruise on the buttcheeks, but first, I had to come up with a way to get it. Thieving was normal in Cairo; but so were the punishments handed to caught thieves, and being that I had a very vital friendship with my hands, I was reluctant to pluck it straight out from the man's beltline.  
  
"Lemme' shoot d'pissant, Rick!" Gregor didn't know what a pissant was, but we'd heard many travelers use such terminology, and had long ago dubbed that as 'tough-guy' talk, a necessary lingo for two boys that were the top dogs in the Orphanage.  
  
"You couldn't keep the handle steady enough to even get it there, much less hit 'im." Gregor'd never quite been the brains ( or the brawn, for that matter ) of our little outfit, and as I look back, he was more of just a lackey of mine. Every leader had a right-hand-man, right?  
  
For just a moment, it almost seemed like he was going to come down and wallop me for the insult, but he kept his stiff-backed sit atop the bunk, probably more or less recollecting the last time he tried to get a knock in on me and went to the house-lady crying with a broken nose. Instead, he uttered a half-hearted retort. "..c'ud so."  
  
But then, it occured to me. With the way that man kept his hands laced behind his back, I needed a distraction, one that my poor-aimed pal could easily provide. And so, before I'd even began to explain, I was reaching beneath my blankets and grasping out three semi-good-shaped stones ( no use in wasting good amo on a poor shot ) and rising up on my bunk to drop them and the slingshot down beside Gregor. "Yeah, you're right, you could." Maybe I didn't believe it, but I'd already learned the concept of buttering people up and that was something that Gregor didn't quite notice. His eyes were already alit with glee from the compliment and he was taking the slingshot carefully up by the handle ( he already knew that if he damaged it, I'd take its price out in his hide and shares of his dinner for the next month ).  
  
"Who ya' wan'me ta nail, Rick? Who?"  
  
"See ole' pappa over there?" This remarked with a dignified motion over my shoulder, dropping down to the floor with a light thud.  
  
Gregor was quick to nod.  
  
"See if you can't pop him one backside of the head. Use a lil' one, we don't need him passin' out on us." I'd made that mistake once before and didn't dare stand against the house-lady's wrath for that, again. But then, that really hadn't been a stone I'd nailed the man with.. it could have been more accurately described as a brick.  
  
"Righ-toe, Rick."  
  
"Wait 'til I make my way over to the girl's bunks." I waited no more than long enough to offer that command, turning immediately after and hustling myself over toward where a trio of girls were quietly chatting amongst themselves, and merely slid myself politely right into the conversation. Not a one of them had anything against my speaking with them; I seemed to be the only boy in the Orphanage that had received a vaccination for the horrible 'cootie' virus.  
  
It was a yelped shriek from the woman beside the targetted man ( an outcome I had actually expected ) that signalled my cue and proved Gregor's terrible aim. She span around with a cry, patting at her bottom and at the same time, gaining her man's unfaltering attention. Dismissing myself from the female's conversation, I was in a silent step for the man's back..and had nearly fished a strong grasp about the handle of that dagger when in a motion that was blinding in speed had the man facing me with a painfully rough grip executed on my right elbow.   
  
That was the first time I'd gotten a true good look up at them. The woman was clearly a westerner by her colorful clothing, coiled hair and fluffed hat. I noted from there that she was probably the prettiest woman I'd ever come across with large, pouty lips tainted red, vivid green eyes, and that dark, curly hair. The man was hardly as pleasant. He had the distinct look of a local with his broadset features, sun-darkened skin, voidful eyes, and equally colorless hair. His demeanor was no less settling.   
  
A near-silent 'tsk' seemed to be uttered from him and a half-second later, he wrenched my arm at such a sharp angle, the reverberating snap my elbow gave in response echoed in my ears. I'd never had a broken bone before. At that moment, I promised myself that I never would again. I'd never experienced such pain and it jarred my arm from my wrist all the way to my shoulder. I dropped to my knees with a grimace and I only can wonder why it did not turn into a cry of pain. I never cried out, however. I only squinted my eyes shut and clutched at my twisted elbow with the opposing palm, the panging from the joint already bad enough for the touch to it to cause no more pain. It was then that I could hear the dull thunk of the man's arm coming down against my head. I never felt the impact..just the floor as things went dark.  
  
-------------------------  
  
"Richard...Oh, Richard. Wake up. You have a mother and father!"  
  
Groggy, I let my eyes peel open to find myself on a cot in a back room where I'd located myself numerous times before. It was the room that the house-lady used as a doctor's office for the kids when they got bumped or scraped, or in my case, required a cast on their arm. The shooting pain there had faded into a dull throb, I noted, and I let my head turn toward it first..a frown of disgust tugging at my features when I noticed the cumbersome plaster which the house-lady had applied to keep my arm station.  
  
Further glance about the room revealed to me the form of the pleasant, yet large, house-lady staring down on me. "Did you hear me, Richard? Someone's adopted you."  
  
Disbelieving, my brows weasled inward to one another, obviously serving her with a look that mirrored my unwillingness to believe it.  
  
"You're moving to the United States. Virginia!"  
  
I'd heard of the United States before, but I had no clue as to what in the hell a Virginia was, so I settled for picking myself carefully upright in bed, pulling my casted arm inward against my stomach and tugging at my shirt sleeve until I'd propped it on the inside so I didn't have to hold it up myself.  
  
"Well, go! Go pack your bag, they'll be back shortly!"  
  
Having convinced myself that she had gone stark-crazy or was just pulling a prank, I hadn't believed her until then that it was true. Only then did I give a semi-obediant nod and wander from the back room and into the housing room in a numb sort of daze. Someone had adopted me? I'd been unconscious for who knew how long.. so who would have chosen me in that state? Maybe the house-lady had pulled the 'poor soul was abused and just dropped off here yesterday' act. It didn't really matter. I was getting out of there.  
  
The room was mostly empty, as it tended to be that time of day. Most of the kids went outside and played until the sun got too high up, then they came in for an hour or two and went back outside until the desert's cold began to kick in. I truthfully thought that I was alone in the room as I made my way to the bunk, and got myself scared near out of my skin when Gregor's head poked out over the top bunk to look down on me, disappointment obvious on his features. "..so yer goin' away?"  
  
"Yep, someone actually adopted me." I paused for a moment, before reaching over my bed and grabbing my duffle from its spot beside my pillow. I'd never thought I'd use it.  
  
"Where yew goin'?"  
  
"The U.S. of A. says th' house-lady." My response was withdrawn, almost meloncholy. Gregor and I had always planned to get adopted by the same people and I could tell that he was resenting me right about then.  
  
"Wow. S'all 'away across d'ocean, ain't it?" My nod was my answer. "S'ppose yew can't sneak me in dat bag, can you?"  
  
I hesitated, glancing down into it. There was no way. "No.."  
  
The next few minutes passed between us in silence, me being preoccupied with the chore of bundling my bedding with one hand and stuffing that along with my slingshot that Gregor had thought to return to its place on my pillow inside my bag. I thought better of the slingshot and tucked it into my back pocket. It was Gregor's voice that broke the silence. "Sorry 'bout yer arm, Rick.. That fella' laid a number on yew."  
  
"..Nah, s'all right." I shrugged my shoulder upward for good measure and drew the buttons closed on my bag before stepping backward to peer up on him. "Didn't hurt all too bad."  
  
"I hope he doesn't do it to you every time yew screw up."  
  
I hadn't put two and two together up until that point, and when I did, I was suddenly wishing that I was still going to be living at the orphanage. A lingering gulp was given against my throat, my eyes squinting up on Gregor in question. "What's that mean?"  
  
"D'house-lady didn' tell ya'? 'Dem people are d'ones 'at're adoptin' yew."  
  
My head felt light and my stomach was churning with a sense of fear I'd never quite known before. I was not a coward by nature, but I did not, under any circumstances, want to face that man again, especially under the guise of him being my 'father.' How was I going to get away from that, though? I was only one boy. . . with a very loyal ( and wanting to get out ) sidekick.  
  
"Gregor, pack your bag, you're comin' with me."  
  
"Are yew crazy, Rick? D'house-lady'll pitch a fit."  
  
"We'll be gone b'fore she knows what happened." The wheels were already spinning in my mind and I'd decided that I wasn't going with that man and woman. Gregor and I would run away.  
  
  
  
Chapter 2 -- Gateway to a new life  
-- 1910; Escape  
  
We'd escaped the orphanage with less ease than we'd anticipated. My 'parents' had entered the room in search of me the moment I sent Gregor out the window with the aide of a rope we'd constructed out of the kid's bedsheets and I was forced to leap out the window and trust the rope to hold both of our weight.  
  
Never trust cheap cotton.  
  
No sooner had I been dangling a good ten feet off the ground with Gregor six feet below me, than the cotton gave a disgusting rip and sent us both tumbling to the sandy rode beneath us. My fall wasn't that bad but that was because I had a soft landing. Gregor, on the other hand, argued for years that I weighed a hundred pounds.  
  
We scrambled and were already cutting through an alleyway, bags in tow, when we heard the local authorities shouting down the street for us to halt. Cutting through the mainstreet and toward Giza Port, my first instinct was to cram us onto the large steamer that was set patiently in the Nile, awaiting its passengers. Obviously, the authorities expected that as well, because we were in the process of clambering ourselves into the boat via the left unattended rampway when we could hear voices up the street. We didn't look back.  
  
That night was spent in the cargo hold of the boat where, after some pillaging of the crates, we not only found two new bags capable of carrying more goods, but food, an essential that had slipped our minds in acquiring before leaving the orphanage. I also found a small revolver which I stowed into my bag without telling Gregor; I didn't know how to shoot it, but the weapon called to me and it turned out to be a good choice in the future.  
  
  
  
Chapter 3 -- Youth at the Beginning of W.W.I  
-- 1911-13; Venice, Italy  
  
The boat from Giza had landed us in Naples, Italy. It had taken us all of a week to make our way to Venice before we decided to stop running, and we'd spent a good two and a half years after that, learning the water ways and making end's meat ( even if that was by stealing most of the time ). Gregor and I stayed in the abandoned attic of a church just north of Palazzo Ducale and had turned the rickety loft into a place of relatively high-standarded living ( in the minds of preadolescent boys, anyway ) with the help of our quickly honing thievery skills. Unfortunately, our pastime of taking things for free caught up to us every now and then and by the turn of our second year in Venice, there were very few common shop owners that did not recognize us before we had the chance to lift something.  
  
Correction, there were very few common shop owners that did not recognize me before I had the chance to lift something. As I've mentioned already, Gregor had never really been the brains of the organization, and tended to be the get-away-man that I'd post at the docks, just to insure that if and when I came running with a pack of officers on my tail, he could get me out of trouble. Unfortunately, we'd been having a bad streak of luck with me being pointed out before I could even get within ten feet of a stall, and so, we were forced to send Gregor out in search of food.  
  
It was an early afternoon, and the canals were swollen from a good rain the night prior. The rain had gotten in through a hole in the roof of our attic and ruined a good portion of the food we had set aside for the following day, forcing us to make the risky attempt at stealing for the third day in a row. Gregor had left me a good ten minutes ago, and I had idled myself with batting my grimy hands into the water of the canal at ( which I was waiting ) to clean them, though the constant fight seemed to be futile on my part.   
  
"Halt, Dieb!" The German words for 'stop, thief!' were second nature to Gregor and I by the turn of 1913 and snapped me out of my trance.  
  
Straightening substantially from my slouched position, standing at the back of our gondola ( something that we'd swiped from a dock a good year prior ), I snatched a hold on the steering pole and attempted to bring myself up on tiptoe to better view the streets without rocking the small boat. The yells of German soldiers were not settling and I abruptly found myself regretting letting Gregor go that far inland. The Venice authorities were pushovers, they always had been, but the past year had seen the arrival of an increasing amount of German soldiers throughout all of Italy, and they were not only more intelligent than the Italians, but they were meaner.  
  
I'd grown a good deal more than Gregor had over the past two years, just over five feet in height and about average of weight. Gregor was still a good four inches shorter and there was little hope in me picking him out from the crowd, so I opted to press the pole down to the base of the canal and maneuver the gondola slightly closer toward the dock in anticipation. The voices were getting louder, and only meant one thing; it was going to be close.   
  
I laced the end of the pole through the small cast-iron loop which was welded to the side of the boat to keep it attached, and I shifted forward to a chest ( covered with a blanket ) that Gregor and I used to stow away our thieved goods to get past the authorities, but by the closing proximity of the adult voices, I could tell they must have been hot on Gregor's heels and we wouldn't have the time to even do that. Forced to come up with another idea, I stared down at the thin material of the blanket draped across the chest before, as if stricken with a bolt of lightning, I threw the blanket back and pulled the chest open.  
  
It was at that point in time that the lanky build of the red-haired boy known as Gregor came dashing through the crowd, empty-handed. The only thing he seemed to have attained was followers which were yet to appear, though couldn't be far behind.  
  
"Hurry, hurry!" I snapped at him in basic English, something that strangely, few of the locals knew. I didn't make the decision to use that particular language just because both Gregor and I were fluent in it. Chances were, the surrounding Venetians, nor the pursuing German soldiers would understand a word we said; that was why. Gregor and I had both picked up a tongue for Italian during our stay, as well as enough German to get by. It was circumstance that decreed we went back to our roots and broke out the language of the house-lady of the orphanage back in Cairo and if anyone in the world knew how to read between a dangerous situation's lines, it was me. That skill would prove to come in handy in the future.  
  
The boat reeled dangerously to the left as Gregor leaped completely off the dock and landed unsteadily within the small vessel, rasping for air and lurching over at the waist. "Two of them." He gasped between breaths.  
  
Unfortunately from him, I was in no hurry to hear him out. Grabbing hold of his right shoulder, I whipped him about and toward the chest. "Get in there, in the chest."  
  
He halted himself with a dig of his heels just shy of the wooden contraption. "Are you crazy? I can't fit in there!"  
  
"Better find a way to fit or we're both dead!" I planted a forceful shove into his shoulder and we'd just managed to cram him uncomfortably into the wooden box and slam the lid down over him when I caught glimpse of the mentioned two soldiers emerging hurriedly from the crowd, looking about in frustration.  
  
As idle as I could, I reached over and pulled the blanket up and over the chest, patting it into place as if I had nothing better to do. Despite, the sight of a twelve year old boy standing in a gondola all alone must have looked suspicious, because the two made no hesitation in approaching me.  
  
"Sie! Wohin ging der Junge mit dem roten Haar?" My German was rusty, but it didn't take much basic to figure out what the smaller of the two soldiers was demanding. All I had to do was know the words 'boy,' 'red,' and 'hair' before I got the picture and I winced slightly to myself.   
  
Fumbling, I put together a sentence in as good of an Italian accent as I could muster. "Parlo soltanto italiano, signore." Both of the men hesitated at the comment, as if disbelieving the statement that a boy, that looked as unnative as I, would know only Italian.  
  
"Wo?!" The shorter soldier snapped at me almost instantly afterward, and I found myself backing off a half pace as he adjusted his rifle against his shoulder from its angle toward the dock to settle entirely in an aim to my chest.  
  
Only then did the second soldier decide to speak up, something that flowed much too quickly in their native language for me to pick up on other than the word 'Italian.' "Er spricht nur italienisch, Sir." Whatever it was, however, it seemed to calm the shorter man substantially 'for the muzzle of the rifle was gradually beginning to lower from its aim.  
  
Taking a cue where it was needed, I practically leaped to make my story seem a bit more convincing. "Desiderate essere presi in qualche luogo? Li assicuro che, sono il pilota del canale più poco costoso troviate in tutto di Venezia." And as if to finalize my offer as a boatman for hire, I reached over and abruptly pulled the pole of my gondola free of its holder, pressing the tip down into the water of the canal until it struck bottom. Turning on the quickly fading facade of innocence that most children could hone at will, I merely blinked up on the two figures as though I had no other goal in life than to earn a bit of money transporting people about Venice, even if my hidden agenda was to get me and Gregor away as quickly as possible.  
  
"Was sagte er?" Again, it was the smaller man, murmuring toward the other.  
  
"Er bietet uns Durchgang in der Stadt an." I guessed that the second man was explaining to him what it was that I was offering, and I was tempted to jam my pole backward to cause the boat to drift into the canal, but I thought better of it. If it appeared that I was attempting to make an escape of any kind, they'd certainly hesitate none in shooting me, something I didn't really want.  
  
"Nr.! Wo ist der Junge mit dem roten Haar?" My thoughts were interrupted by the smaller man's repetition of the question from before, and with my best facade of innocence present, I spread both of my arms slightly outward and faked confusion.  
  
I should have seen it coming, but the second soldier, at that point in time, repeated the question in shaky Italian. "Where is the boy with red hair?"  
  
And with that, I was trapped, or at least, they thought they had me trapped. I fortunately had the playing card of his Italian being shaky under my sleeve, and after making a seemingly dignified attempt at deciphering what he was saying, I merely shook my head and repeated my original defense to not answering. "Non parlo il signore tedesco e gentile." I didn't speak German.   
  
Clearly frustrated, the men exchanged a heated conversation that I had no chance of remotely following before delivering me angered glances. For a fleeting instant, I believed they'd shoot me then and there, but instead, they both turned and hustled further down the dock.  
  
Stumbling backward with the release of a breath I did not know I'd been holding, I jammed the pole forcefully into the base of the canal and propelled the gondola backward. Slowly, yet surely, making the small vessel move down the waterway and from the two soldiers.   
  
I took my time in getting home, if only to throw off anyone who had been following, and kept the slow pace up the canal until Gregor's begging from within the chest got the best of me and I docked half a block away from the church at which we were staying. Only after I was sure no one was standing around did I pull the blanket away and open the chest, which prompted the immediate topple of Gregor out onto the deck of the gondola in a heap, stretching out.  
  
"Jesus Christ, Rick, did you have to take so damned long gettin' here?"  
  
I paused for a moment, squinting down on him before shrugging my shoulders back and reaching for the dock to pull myself out and onto dry land. "Traffic."  
  
I could hear Gregor mumble something inaudible behind my back with a spat, but no sooner was I in step for the church, he had caught up to me, even if he was still rubbing at spots on his body that most likely were cramped up from his ride in the chest.  
  
Everything seemed intact upon our entrance into the church and clambering our way up to the attic, but that misconception of safety was abruptly killed when I stuck my head through the loft's entrance via climbing up the ladder and found my two soldier friends from the dock standing inside. The smaller one was merely staring down on me, a snide smirk curving his withdrawn features, while the other one was in the process of rampaging my rucksack and bedding. "Gregor, run!" Dropping slightly, I thought better of sliding down the ladder the moment two rifles were trained on me, but I was in between them and Gregor and he had learned to ask no questions over the years and I could hear his shoes hit the floor below as he obediently dropped.  
  
Where a once unsteady Italian voice had come from the taller of the two soldiers, however, now reverberated a clean English dialect. They must have been playing me for a fool back at the docks. The man was definitely a walking translator. "One more step, Red, and your friend meets his gods."  
  
"They've got rifles, Gregor, just get out of here." I remarked half-bittenly downward, though my attention never faltered from the two men in front of me. For some strange reason, I was not scared as I should have been. There was perhaps no time in my life that I had ever been in so much danger, and I couldn't recollect my mind ever working so clearly. It was as if danger itself sparked my mind to kick into overhaul and I was instantly letting my gaze wander toward the rafters overhead, considering.  
  
"Yeah, well, they've got rifles down here, too." It was at that point in time that I noticed Gregor was reclimbing the ladder and nudging me up. Taking a risked glance downward, my attention fell onto three more soldiers at the base of the ladder, all armed with the same weapons as their superior officers.  
  
Pausing, I slowly made my way up the ladder and into the attic with the other two, bringing my hands over my head in the process as Gregor trudged up behind me. The soldiers at the bottom did not follow.   
  
I never quite figured out where the words came from, but I had put no thought into it before my mouth was running, much to my surprise. I came to eventually believe it, just like the clear-headedness, was some natural survival instinct. "Some good soldiers you are. Takes five of you to catch two unarmed boys."  
  
I didn't need to glance to my left to know what kind of a horrified glance Gregor was serving me. His whisper was enough. "What are you trying to do? Get us kille--"  
  
It was the smaller man's crisp, unsettling laughter that cut Gregor's question off, somehow compelling both of us to return our full attention to him. His English wasn't as crisp as his comrade's, heavily accented with his German background, though he obviously knew enough of it to get by anywhere in Europe. "We do not come after you for your crimes, young men."  
  
"I thought they called you thief." I shot sidelong toward Gregor in disbelief.  
  
"I never even got to the stall! They just started chasin' me."  
  
"You could have told me that before.!" Our conversation was again interrupted by the soldiers, though this time, by the second and taller of the figures who stepped toward me in one solid motion and latched a sweeping grasp on my right wrist, pulling it upward and into the vague light of a window overdramatically. This, I did not appreciate, and was instinctively jerking my arm free before I'd even responded. "Hey, get your hands off me!"  
  
"It is the scar of the Templar." He informed the other, turning his back on me.  
  
I didn't know what in the hell he was talking about, my arm wasn't scarred. Glancing downward, it was then that I realized what he might have been talking about. My tattoo. An uneasy sense of self-consciousness crept up from somewhere in the back of my mind, as though I'd committed some crime by letting them see it, and I found myself making haste to reach up the arms of my white, buttoned overshirt ( something I'd taken a liking to and stolen from a local vender ) and jerked the sleeve of the right arm down over my tattoo. It had become habit to roll the sleeves back to my elbows, 'for I'd gotten a shirt a size or two too large for growing room and the extra material was always in the way.   
  
The mark successfully hidden, I subconsciously dropped my left hand over it, despite the fact that the material already hid the inked marking.  
  
"Then it is true." The smaller man was mumbling as I performed this act, both men turning about to stare at me as if in some newfound light. I wavered uncomfortably on my knees and risked my attention to Gregor who appeared just as dumbfounded as I.  
  
"But why is he separated from his people?"  
  
"Perhaps he is the chosen. This could be very beneficial to the war." The smaller man was apparently excited, now, though I was still at a loss for what was going on, and was just as confused and ultimately frightened when he barked out an order to the men stationed below the ladder to go find the Colonel. In a flash, all three men disappeared, and Gregor and I were left with the preoccupied soldiers who were already speaking to one another heatedly. "If he is truly Templar, then perhaps he could lead the expedition past the Valley of the Dunes and through the mirages of Seti."  
  
They seemed to be speaking another language, even if they were speaking in clear English for the time. Letting my right arm slowly sink as I watched them in confusion, my entire body froze as my fingers brushed against a lump against the front of my shirt. My revolver. The weapon I'd picked up from the boat from Giza and never quite gotten around to shooting. Did I even know how to make the thing fire? And a better question..was it loaded?  
  
"The riches of Hamunaptra could easily fund us through the war -- and if Bembridge is correct about the Book of the Dead..." It was the taller man, then, but I'd already heard my fill and had worked the digits of that 'scarred' arm down into my shirt, coiling about the hilt of the revolver which rested its cool metal surface to my chest beneath my shirt. My hand was quaking, though I didn't realize it. "Our army will be invincible."  
  
"You!" The short man whirled on me, excitement in his eyes. Though his expression abruptly contorted to one of surprise as reflex and some sort of blind instinct jerked the tendons in my arm and had the revolver free in a flash, rotated about to face the small figure, muzzle first. I didn't even realize I'd drawn back the hammer before the trigger popped backward and the loft was filled with a deafening crash.   
  
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the taller man's rifle raise, though a mere flick of my wrist had halted any such movement ,'for before I could even blink, another crash was sounded and both men fell to the floor, milliseconds apart in impact.  
  
My hand lowered with a quiver as the cold realization of what occurred finally barreled its way into my dazed mind, though for some reason, I could not bring myself to drop the revolver. The shock of losing your blood innocence effects everyone differently from what I hear, and though I did feel a certain amount of relief, guilt for having terminated the lives of the two soldiers soon followed and weighed on my conscience for a long period of time. I'd like to say, that over time, you get used to killing people. Maybe some people do. Maybe even I seem like I do, but there's always that guilt in the back of your mind, telling you that maybe they had a family at home waiting on them or that had you been a split second slower, perhaps you both could have gotten out alive. Killing has only rarely been something I've felt good about, and those people were..more or less deserving. Killing even now, as an adult with years of it behind me, is not pleasant. Killing, as a twelve year old, with a conscience the size of North America, was traumatic.  
  
It took Gregor's hand on my shoulder to snap me out of my staring trance, shaking me back into reality. "Come on, we've gotta' go, they'll be back any time!"   
  
We escaped through the window and fled not only Venice, but Italy as a whole, less than a week later.  
  
For a long time, I had myself convinced that I'd killed the two men simply out of fear, a natural emotion to any boy that age and in that situation. I had seen it as protecting me and Gregor both. Later on, however, I realized that I had never felt so out of control of my body. It was as though a supernatural instinct was forcing me to make sure those two never located whatever they had been talking about. It still took me decades to be willing to accept that, and at times, I still find myself unwilling to believe it. I can be certain of one thing, however, and it was the fact that the kills were not conscious ones and that I felt, at the time, that it was out of defense. If that defense was of myself and Gregor, or of the location that they spoke of, well.. I'm yet to figure that out.  



End file.
